


Jackin' the Beanstalk

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Accidental Exhibitionism, Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Clubbing, Dancing, Friends to Lovers, Inappropriate Erections, Intelligence Kink, It's For a Case, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, OK maybe there is a tiny bit of plot sneaking in, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Snogging, Tiny bit of Angst, and a wee bit more plot creeps in, stake out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 5 times Sherlock or John accidentally made the other come and the 1 time they did it together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh Captain, My Captain

Sherlock watched John with far too much interest. Despite the man’s below average stature, John was all Captain Watson at the moment. His persona was more than adequate to offset any perceived inadequacies. John's face was flushed thanks to the chill in the air and anger that the officers were stirring up. Apparently, no one ever told them not to poke at a hornet’s nest.

Mycroft had _asked_ them to visit a military installation this time, but they seemed to be having more difficulties than when they had just dropped by Baskerville. John had not only had to pull rank with _three_ different lower ranking officers _four_ times (Sherlock was fairly certain John had nearly punched the lieutenant when he attempted to disobey orders a second time) but was now arguing with the commanding office of the base how his authority came from a higher place than the Major’s (not that either one of them could disclose their respective authority figures).

Besides not being able to further their current investigation, Sherlock had another problem: he was hard, embarrassingly so. He had long known about his propensity towards a military kink, especially when John was involved, but had never been in a situation where it would be a problem. It apparently went beyond appreciating a man in uniform and included the order-giving as well.

Sherlock shifted in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his cock, but only ended up making it worse. The glide of his silky pants over his cock only served to arouse him further. Seeing that the argument was not progressing (John had resorting to attempting contact with Mycroft by phone), Sherlock decided to slip away and see if he couldn’t take matters into his own hands, as it were.

“And where do you think you’re going?” John asked scathingly as he turned to Sherlock.

Sherlock flinched at the tone. He knew it wasn’t directed solely at him, but the doctor’s patience was sorely thin right now. It wouldn’t do for John to find out how much Sherlock was aroused by his flatmate, military kink or not. John wasn’t like that; he had made that perfectly clear.

“Oh… just off clueing for looks.” He threw John his brightest smile, turned around before the man could get another word in, and strode off.

The detective thought he heard John mumble something like “insufferable prick” as he turned back to the Major, but didn’t care enough to find out. Sherlock walked until he was safely ensconced in one of the alleyways between the warehouses. He did a quick inventory of the security devices in the alley and deduced where there would be a blind spot. He might not particularly care if someone saw what he was doing (another kink he would need to work through) but it wouldn’t do to have video evidence his brother could berate him with.

As Sherlock took one more glance up and down the alley, he felt a familiar thrill run through his body. He was also ecstatic that his coat was so long; not only did it tactfully hide his exceedingly obvious erection when in polite company, but it also allowed him to discretely stroke himself through his trousers, ensuring he could finish in an expedient manner once he arrived at his destination. His arm was already out of the sleeve and, as he approached the alcove created by the ventilation system, he pulled open his flies and released the pressure on his cock. An obscene moan left his lips as the cool air met his heated flesh (not that he would _ever_ admit to making such noises).

Sherlock took his cock in hand and began rubbing up and down the length. Unbidden, images of John in fatigues or his mess dress crept into Sherlock’s mind, adding fuel to the fire of his desire. Every third or fourth stroke he would swipe his thumb over the slit and spread the accumulated precome over his shaft. He made a show of kneeling down, purposefully allowing his free hand to rest on some of the duct work to keep him upright. He could already feel the heat pooling deep in his pelvis, his muscles tensing in anticipation.

Just as Sherlock was nearing the edge, he heard indistinguishable words, in John’s distinctive commanding voice, drift into the alleyway. He felt the flesh in his hand thicken; the tactile and aural input combined was too much. Sherlock came; his orgasm was incredible intense, semen spilling over his hand and onto the edges of his coat. His hand stilled as his breath came in short, heavy pants. He surveyed the damage and noted that he would need his coat dry-cleaned (at a new location that didn’t know him) and proceeded to clean his hand on the inside.

“Sherlock?” John called from the yard.

Sherlock froze. His voice was much calmer than it had been earlier; John must have won. Now, he was looking for Sherlock, a Sherlock who still had drying come smeared on his hands and cheeks flushed from his arousal. Quickly, he arranged himself back in his trousers. The detective rose and decided to sprint to the end of the alleyway, slipping his arm back into the sleeve of his coat as he went. When Sherlock reached the corner a few seconds later, he nearly collided with John.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arms to steady himself and keep them from toppling over. “Sherlock, what are you doing? Where were you?” He asked, voice still full of command.

The taller man watched as John removed his hands from the detective and looked at him like he was a misbehaving child (or lower ranked officer).

Sherlock shrugged. John was highly observant at the most inconvenient of times and the detective had only one chance to throw him off.

“I was down at the other end of the building when you called. I didn’t want to give them a chance to come up with yet another road block to our investigation, so I came running, Sir.”

The corner of John's mouth quirked at the answer and he looked intently at Sherlock for just a moment.

(Sherlock wouldn’t admit it but he was holding his breath. Surely John was about to call him out on his actions.)

Finally, John replied. “Ok, _Detective_ , let’s go then.” It was spoken in John’s normal timbre, but there was a palpable undertone of command still there.

Sherlock watched as John did a precision about-face and marched off to where a very disgruntled Major was waiting. He blinked, twice, before quickly falling into step behind John. They did have a _military_ base to investigate, after all.


	2. Bass Down Low

John took a sip of his beer, eyes drifting over the dance floor. It wasn’t hard to find the detective in the swaying mass of flesh. Sherlock had dug deep into his wardrobe to pull out some old clubbing gear: a purple (and impossibly snug) deep v-neck shirt and skin-tight leather trousers (sans-pants, of course). Consequently, he had attracted a small following of drooling minions, both male and female, despite this being a mostly gay bar.

They had arrived separately, entering the club minutes apart, so that Sherlock could attempt to lure the drug lord they were tracking into an incriminating situation. Sherlock had insisted he could work the case alone, but John refused to let him. Sherlock assumed it was because drugs would be involved, and John hadn’t bothered to correct him. Sure, it was always there in the back of his mind but John wasn’t actually worried about it. Really, John didn’t like the idea of Sherlock rubbing and grinding on a seething mass of strangers; not that he could share this with the detective. Sherlock had made his stance perfectly clear that first night at Angelo’s; he was married to the Work.

Now, as John _watched_ the rubbing and grinding, he wasn’t sure this was the best idea. He assumed his possessiveness would keep him sharp and alert, worrying more about _who_ was next to the detective. Instead, he was mesmerized by Sherlock’s sensuous movements, his blood rushing south at an alarming rate. John had put on one of his tighter pairs of jeans tonight in an effort to look a little younger, but now his cock was painfully trapped by the unrelenting fabric.

He turned back to the bar and ordered his third pint. As he waited, he used the moderate amount of privacy to attempt adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. While he succeeded in releasing a small amount of pressure, it was short lived. The friction created by the movement and the sight, as he turned back to the room, of Sherlock undulating his body from head to toe to the beat of the music nearly made him come in his pants.

_I feel like a bloody teenager!_

John took a deep breath and heavy pull from his pint, a third of it drained before he stopped. He really should slow down; his head was already a bit fuzzy and he didn’t need to cross into completely pissed while on a case.

The song changed into something a little slower and John sighed, assuming Sherlock would take a short break like most of the dance floor seemed to be doing; he was wrong. If anything, Sherlock’s motions became more suggestive and hedonistic with the slower tempo. He watched, unable to remove his eyes from Sherlock, who, John was distantly pleased to note, was currently dancing solo. The pressure in John’s jeans reached a peak and he let out an involuntary moan. This wasn’t going to work.

He drained his glass and set it back on the bar. He took one last look at Sherlock (to make sure he was still ok, of course, not to gain a bit more fodder for what he was about to do) and made his way towards the loo. He found an empty one and praised whatever higher powers existed that this bar only had single stall rooms.

John barely clicked the lock into place as his other hand found his flies and opened them. As his cock pushed itself free of his pants, his hips rocked it forward into his waiting hand. John leaned against the doorjamb, his temple resting on his forearm as it braced him upright. He groaned at the sensation created by his callused hand. The music outside picked up again and John’s mind returned to Sherlock on the dance floor: angles and lines turned graceful and sinuous. John pumped his fist over his cock spreading the precome that was pooling in his slit. The small bit of fluid provided just enough lubrication to keep from chafing but not enough to dull the friction he loved. John paused, reaching underneath to fondle his bollocks, already drawn tight against his body. He was closer than he thought. His other hand flew down to furiously pump his cock as his other hand rolled his testicles around his palm. John let out a stifled scream as come splattered against the wall in several long spurts.

He slumped against the wall and attempted to catch his breath. Several minutes later, as he was tucking himself away, he noticed the music had stopped entirely. He cautiously stepped out of the loo and into the club, now fully lit, to see most of the patrons milling about the edges of the club. Down on the dance floor John, saw Sherlock talking to Lestrade as several other officers led handcuffed suspects towards the door. He had apparently missed all the (case-related) action.

John made his way down to the floor.

“Ah, John,” Sherlock walked to him. “Where have you been?”

“Uh,” the doctor started. He paused as he saw the detective’s deducing eye run over his body. Sherlock was not known for his tact or when he should keep his deductions to himself. He needed to beat him to the finish.

“Got stuck in the loo. All singles. And I’ve already had three pints.” He quickly looked around the room. “Would have waited if, I’d known all the action was about to happen.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes at John again (who completely ignored the detective). “No,” he muttered loud enough for only John to hear, “don’t think you missed out on the action at all.”

John watched as he turned to the DI before the doctor could answer.

“Do you require us any further, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, completely ignoring the fact that Lestrade was in a conversation with the club owner.

Lestrade waved a hand at Sherlock, indicating he could go.

John stood as Sherlock spun on his heels and, he swears, _winked_ at him as he strode on past, just a bit more sway in his hips than strictly necessary. It took several moments for John to come back to himself and realize if he didn’t run after the madman he would have to pay for his own cab fare home.


	3. Brainy is the New Sexy

Sherlock watched as John bent down to take a closer look at the body, not bothering to cover his nose anymore. There really wasn’t much left to it, mostly bones and connective tissue sticking up from the remaining bits of flesh. Once the windows had been opened, the smell of rot and decay had dissipated rather quickly. Sherlock took one final glance around the abandoned flat to make sure there was nothing he missed. Once John was finished, they walked over to where Lestrade was waiting.

“Based on the location of the body and fauna present, I’d say your victim died several months ago,” Sherlock stated. “The there are marks on the side of his skull consistent with blunt force trauma, likely the actual cause of death, from a cane or other similar device.”

“His?” asked Anderson from the corner where Sherlock had banished him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, Anderson, _his_. Surely, you remember your anatomy lessons.”

“But the body is in a dress!”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed sarcastically. “Brilliant deduction, Anderson! Somehow I missed that fact. This changes everything!”

“Really?” Anderson asked, honestly thinking he had said something correct.

“No,” the detective snapped. Sherlock turned back to the rest of the room and continued ranting off the details of the crime, Lestrade diligent in his note taking.

“Um, Sherlock?”

Sherlock let out another sigh before turning to John. This had better be good as the doctor knew better than to interrupt mid-deduction.

“Listen, uh,” John began, tongue dancing over his lower lip.

 _He’s nervous. Why?_ Sherlock quirked his head, giving John his full attention. _John isn’t usually nervous._

“I’m sure all the rest of it is right, but I think this body has only been here a few weeks at best.” John paused and rubbed the back of his neck, purposefully avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock frowned while the jaws of most of the other people in the room dropped. Someone… no, _John Watson_ … has just corrected Sherlock Holmes… at a crime scene!

“Well, see,” John started again, still unsure of himself. “See, there are multiple stages of… of _Dermestes maculates_ , the flesh eating beetle that we see all the time. That would suggest that the time frame you suggest, but the ratio of adults to larvae is off. It’s almost like someone dumped a bunch of larvae onto the body to speed up decomposition.”

Sherlock watched as John took another deep breath before continuing.

“If he really has been dead for a couple of months I would expect to see a fairly mixed population present as adults from the environment lay their eggs, larvae hatch and start feeding, more eggs get laid, etc.”

John walked back towards the body, gesturing to various areas as he continued.

“But there are an astounding amount of young adults present. The larvae are the primary consumers of the flesh so if someone seeded the body with eggs or just-hatched larvae, it would explain the amount of decay. Besides, _Dermestes_ don’t live well off rotten flesh; it needs to be fresh or slightly dried.” John paused and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Kinda like the consistency of beef jerky.”

Sherlock noted that several officers pulled a face at the comparison of the food item to the consistency of corpse flesh these beetles preferred. Sherlock also noted an odd warming sensation beginning in his lower abdomen. It wasn’t external like he had lost control of his bladder (as if _that_ would ever happen to him) but somewhere deeper, an almost sensuous feeling.

“And it’s hard to tell, unless you know what you’re looking for,” John bend down over the corpse again.

Sherlock’s attention was glued to the doctor, his excitement as he got on a roll of describing his findings was… contagious? Well, it was definitely doing something to Sherlock. He shifted a bit as John continued on.

“But there are multiple species of beetle here. _Dermestes lardariusi_ is the larder beetle, see the ones with the yellow stripe? They feast mostly on skin and animal hides.”

A small crowd had gathered around John as he continued what was apparently an impromptu biology and forensics lesson. Even Anderson had crept forward, no doubt to incorrectly learn a whole host of new information.

“Oi, Sherlock!” John looked up at the detective. “If it matters, his clothes are made of natural fibers, silk and wool. There’s some _Anthrenus verbasci_ crawling about, too.”

Sherlock nodded but he wasn’t consciously thinking about the information he’d just received; instead he was focusing more on the man in front of him (of course, Analytical Sherlock was always on duty in his Mind Palace to process new information as he was doing now). Sherlock now understood the warmth in his belly for what it was: arousal. The warmth had drifted down until he felt the stirring of it in his cock, thickening and twitching with each new piece of information John rattled off (currently the life cycles of some of the more obscure beetle species and how that time line helps determine time of death).

The detective watched as John sat back on his heels, a contemplative look on his face. John was discussing probable methods of getting that many beetles to a crime scene, how many really would be needed, temperature variables and timetables.

The longer he watched the more uncomfortable the detective became. His bespoke trousers did not account for arousal and consequently, the snug fabric placed an uncomfortable amount of force on his cock. The more John worked out the details of the case, getting closer and closer to a possible suspect, the more amped up Sherlock became. He had slunk back and was now leaning against the wall of the living room, breaths coming in uneven pants and hips rocking forward in their quest for release.

Obviously, he had always valued intelligence and competency but Sherlock had never realized how much until he watched John, sitting there on the floor, deducing a crime.

_Is this how he feels watching me?_

Sherlock had never paid much attention to John when he praised the detective after brilliant deductions but he never seemed this aroused. Perhaps, he had found yet another kink.

Unbidden, Sherlock’s hand slipped inside his coat and palmed his erection through the front of his trousers. He could already feel the beginning of a damp patch where the precome was soaking through the fabric. He knew he should stop, that the friction was doing nothing to quell his arousal; he was experiencing a different kind of case-associated high, and he (ever the junkie) couldn’t deny it.

By now, everyone had circled around John (still making vague connections, reviewing the facts, and talking out loud just like Sherlock), so the detective took a few more steps back until he was in the kitchen, concealed from the eyes of others but still able to (mostly) see John as he paced.

He bit his lip as he squeezed his cock, stifling the moan that desperately wanted to break free. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling of pleasure as it rolled through his body. He was skirting the edge of orgasm but he’d denied himself before and this would be no different; it would simply make it better when he finally got to finish later.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, he chose the wrong moment to open his eyes. Moments after his eyes found John again, the doctor-cum-detective figured it out. He watched John’s mouth make a silent “O” as the answer came to him and it was too much for Sherlock. Without any added stimulation but the pressure of his trousers and the strength of his mind (or lack thereof), Sherlock came into his pants. It wasn’t as strong as it could have been as there were too many people around for Sherlock to completely give over to the sensations rippling through his body.

“Sherlock!” John yelled.

The detective focused again on John. The doctor was busily clicking through the small screen on his hand-me-down phone. Sherlock willed himself to composure.

“Sherlock! Let’s go! It’s one of the curators at the British Museum!” John was already heading for the door, not even bothering to see if the detective was following.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward. Sherlock pulled a face at the feeling of slick in his pants as he walked but there was nothing he could do about it now. He quickly caught up to John just as he was getting into a cab, still looking at his phone. His last thought before Analytical Sherlock banished Sexual Sherlock to his bedroom (where he would treasure and replay this memory) was that, somehow, John Watson would pay for this.


	4. Sharing is Caring

They had been crouched in the cold damp alley for more than half the night. Sherlock was certain that the suspect would emerge from this particular door tonight, he just had no clue when. So they sat, well crouched, and waited. Every once in a while John would have to stand or balance on Sherlock long enough to stretch out his leg, lest it cramp up.

The doctor contented himself with passing the time by thinking about the last several weeks. Nothing had changed between him and the detective but there was _something_ there that he couldn’t put his finger on. It started sometime after they had visited the military base. First, Sherlock had started asking military-related questions. He even once asked if he could inspect, in detail, how desert fatigues looked when worn, claiming it was for a case. John asked why he couldn’t just google it, but the prat had said his computer was in his bedroom (John laughed at the response but not ten minutes later he was up in his room gearing up). Then, Sherlock started asking his opinion about random subjects (only at home, though, never on cases). Most of the time, John had only vague “plebian” answers to provide but they had several rousing conversations about arthropodology and forensic entomology.

John’s thoughts came back to the present and looked back over his shoulder at the detective squatting intently behind him (the man really was striking when he was so focused) and his heart leapt in his chest. Then another cramp ravaged his leg. Frustrated, he turned towards the detective and stretched his leg again.

“Couldn’t you deduce the time from,” John paused and waved his hands around, vaguely gesturing towards the door, “from the stitching on his sleeves or something?”

“Preposterous, John!” Sherlock whispered back, eyes never leaving the door. “The stitching ties him to this establishment but it’s the crease patterns on his trousers that tell me it will be tonight. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get close enough to view the wear pattern on the back left side of his right shoe. Otherwise, I could have narrowed the timeframe down for us.”

John just stared, mouth open in astonishment (both for how odd it had sounded and for the truth that was likely inherent in the words). To anyone else it would have sounded ridiculous but he knew the detective better than that. Occasionally, Sherlock would amuse John with crazy deductions, making things up to get a laugh out of the doctor, but never while on a case and absolutely not while on a stake out.

The doctor brought his hands together and rubbed them in an attempt to get the blood flowing. When they had left earlier in the evening it was been moderately warm for a spring evening but, in keeping true to English weather, a rain had descended not long after dark. John had remained (more or less) dry but the cold was starting to seep through his light coat and thin jumper. He envied Sherlock’s thick wool Belstaff and his ability to ignore the needs of his transport.

It wasn’t long before John’s body started shivering in an attempt to warm itself up. It was mild at first but eventually it was vibrating the smaller man so much that not even Sherlock could ignore it.

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Sherlock mumbled in irritation.

Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock opened up the front of his coat and was pulling the doctor back against his chest before folding the edges back together. It didn’t quite close with the two of them inside but it was still decidedly warmer. John had stiffened up at the initial contact, but as the warmth seeped back into him (from both the detective’s chest behind him and the long arms in a bear hug around his front) he found himself relaxing into the unusual embrace. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing two normal flatmates did but, then again, he and Sherlock were far from normal. A secret part of him thrilled at the contact from Sherlock. Little touches were common among the pair, but the detective rarely initiated and one had never been so… encompassing. John certainly wasn’t going to complain, both for the practical reasons tonight and the sensual thoughts drifting through his brain. He felt himself settling into Sherlock and forgot about the case for a moment. He didn’t realize how much he had relaxed until he felt Sherlock’s breath ghost along his ear.

“John,” the detective whispered. “John, wake up!”

He’d fallen asleep. The tone of Sherlock’s voice told him that the detective had tried several times to rouse him unsuccessful and John suddenly jerked to nearly full wakefulness. He was momentarily confused about where he was but it all came flooding back (alleyway… waiting for a suspect… warm inside Sherlock’s coat…).

“John, the suspect has gone in and out, twice, for phone calls, and will be departing shortly.”

John gave his head a little shake to get rid of the last cobwebs of slumber. He shifted his muscles, minutely moving his arms and legs to ease out some of the stiffness in them before standing but, oh… oh, no. John shifted his arm again and his fears were confirmed.

He was hard.

John didn’t remember dreaming (the usual cause of his waking wood) but he didn’t always remember them upon waking. He wasn’t rock hard yet, but he was definitely a bit stiffer than he normally found himself when in this situation. He didn’t want to think about how the cause could very likely be the warm body (no… the hot body, his sexual side corrected) behind him. Still, this wasn’t a big deal. His jacket was just long enough to cover the majority of the budge and the cold air once he left Sherlock’s coat should take the edge off things.

Sherlock’s arms slid to John's elbows and he began to stand up, awkwardly pulling John to standing with him. John jumped a tiny bit, had the back of Sherlock’s hand brushed over the bulge? John heard the door open and saw the suspect emerge into the alleyway. From where they were standing in the shadows behind the bins, they weren’t immediately visible but it wouldn’t take much movement on the suspect’s part to be seen.

John watched as the suspect cupped his hands around the cigarette between his lips and flicked the striker on the lighter. The man drew in a large breath to ignite it and then turned towards Sherlock and John as he exhaled, slipping the lighter in his pocket.

John felt a wave of panic course through his veins; clearly they didn’t belong here and there was no way to pass off being in this location. He turned towards Sherlock, desperate to see what the detective thought they should do, but was surprised when the brunette’s lips met his own.  John's eyes flew open at the unexpected contact but let out a loud moan (conveniently, right as the suspect passed by) when he felt Sherlock’s tongue glide over his lower lip (not that John would _ever_ admit how involuntary it had been).

John let instinct take over and continued to snog Sherlock (who turned them slightly so the detective could keep an eye on the suspect). Hands hesitantly shifted over each other’s bodies and lips parted to let tongues in to explore. A small part of John’s brain noted that the suspect was far enough away that nothing more than chaste snogging was needed to continue the farce, but that didn’t seem to stop either man; if John could get away with snogging the detective for a bit, he was going to. The pressure in John’s trousers increased as the detective took the doctor’s lower lip between his teeth and let it drag itself free. An amazing amount of obscene noises were escaping the doctor’s mouth but he couldn’t be arsed to care.

They continued to work each other’s mouths for what seemed like an eternity (in reality it had only been a few minutes) while the suspect made yet another call and began to pace back and forth between then and the alley entrance. John didn’t know how much more he could take before he lost it entirely. He was already quivering from the effort of keeping his hips from rocking forward to meet Sherlock’s. Just then the detective shifted and his lips traveled down John's jaw to his neck. John attempted to voice some sort of protest (his neck was far too sensitive for this kind of thing) but it was lost as a warm wet heat made contact with his skin. He kept trying to force his mind and his body to slow down, but nothing was working. Sherlock slid his tongue over John's pulse point (John swore he felt the detective’s lips curl into an evil grin) and then bit down on it, hard (John was incredibly thankful the next morning when he saw it hadn’t left a mark). As the waves of pleasure and pain pulsed through the doctor, he fell over the edge. His vision temporarily went blank and he felt a pleasant warmth bloom in his pants.  He continued to pant as Sherlock came back to claim his mouth for another kiss. John restrained himself as much as he could and hoped that Sherlock couldn’t tell anything additional had happened besides some obvious pleasure at the teasing of his neck. John was just beginning to come down from his hormonal high, when Sherlock broke the kiss and headed towards the street.

“Come, John!” the detective yelled, already jogging down the alleyway to continue following the suspect.

John fell back against the brick wall, breathing still heavy. “You have no idea,” he said to no one. John took one more deep breath before pushing off the wall and following after the detective, determined to ignore the cooling stickiness in his pants.


	5. Hear Your Flatmate, Speak Your Flatmate, See Your Flatmate

It was well into the wee hours of the morning but in the post-case adrenaline rush, John had trouble falling asleep. He padded softy down the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His mind kept going over the events of the case; they had eventually caught the suspect they had waited for in the alley (Sherlock’s hide-by-snogging hadn’t worked as well as he would have liked), but it had taken most of the next morning. By the time debriefing and paperwork was done it was almost dinnertime and John just really wanted a shower and a clean pair of pants. He had done just that, after making Sherlock order them some takeaway. John had been so engrossed with clean clothes and food that he didn’t notice the antsy detective next to him. He had eventually gone up to bed when his eyes started to blur his computer screen, but his mind didn’t seem to want to stop.

John crept silently across the kitchen, but paused with his hand on the cabinet door. There were soft noises drifting down the hall from Sherlock’s room. John tilted his head, trying to distinguish the cause of the noise but couldn’t from his place in the kitchen.

_Was he having a nightmare? Talking in his sleep maybe?_

The doctor let his hand fall and took a step towards the door. It was then that a particularly feral groan drifted down the hallway. John stopped dead in his tracks. Another moan greeted his ears; Sherlock was clearly aroused.

 _He’s in his bedroom wanking_.

From his position in the hallway he could see that the door was still part-way open. No doubt the detective didn’t realize it was ajar (or that John had come downstairs). Otherwise he suspected that the man would have been a bit quieter.

John was about to turn around and make a hasty retreat back to his room when he heard the snick of a lube bottle opening. In the dead silence of the flat, the noise was nearly deafening. He also couldn’t ignore the wet sound of a lubed hand stroking speedily over flesh. He shook head, trying to dislodge his mind from the path it was taking.

 _Bit not good_.

John's thoughts had been so focused on remaining silent, that he hadn’t realize he was now sporting a massive erection. He didn’t notice until his pajama bottoms (ridiculous silky ones Sherlock had got him last year for Christmas as a joke but there were currently the only ones clean) slid over his cock and drew an involuntary hiss from the doctor at the sensation. He paused, but then let his left hand dropped down to palm his cock and triggered another deep moan from the doctor

_I really should head back upstairs and finish this properly._

John could hear an increase in Sherlock’s breathing and the tempo of his strokes. Deciding he really couldn’t make it up the stairs in his current state, John pushed his bottoms down far enough that he could have free access to his cock. He grasped it around the base before giving himself a few experimental pulls. His knees went a little weak at the strength of arousal and the doctor fell back against the door jamb. He swiped a finger over the slit and spread the moisture accumulated there around. John briefly contemplated finding the bottle of cooking oil but realized that he honestly wasn’t going to last long.

Incoherent sounds and word parts were coming out of the bedroom in a steady stream. The wet slapping sound of Sherlock fucking his hand (because surely there was no other way to achieve _that_ level of sound otherwise) was quickly pushing John towards the edge.

_God, could Sherlock have a toy he’s using in there?_

John’s grip tightened along the shaft and he gave himself one final tug. He came, biting his lip in an attempt to stifle the moans that were issuing forth from his throat. Come streaked across the floor and splattered on the opposite side of the door frame.

_Let the berk deduce that!_

John smiled at the thought as he slid to the floor, legs suddenly too weak to hold him up properly. He was blissfully content, enjoying the remainder of the show. The noises down the hall seemed to reach a crescendo as well with sighs and moans and muted screams. (Sherlock was apparently vocal; how had he missed that?!) Sherlock gave one final yell as he came but John felt his body tense.

_Did he… did he just…_

John strained his ears trying to hear more but the detective was dead silent now. John sat there for several more minutes before he gave up. He pushed himself to his feet (congealed semen completely forgotten) and padded soundlessly back up to his room. John was fairly certain that he had heard Sherlock call out his name as the detective came.

\-------------

Sherlock gave up trying to focus on his laptop screen. He had been mindlessly typing while John was still down here (mostly to avoid any kind of conversation) when all he really wanted to do was go relieve his post-case tension. Years ago, he has used drugs to quiet his mind and dull his senses but he had retrained his mind to crave orgasmic release in the years since he’d last been to rehab. He supposed it was merely trading one drug for another, but at least these were legal drugs (hormones, he reminded himself) produced by his body.

The detective closed the screen and set it on the table. John had finally gone to bed hours ago and should be deeply asleep by now. Volume had never been a worry before, but after John moved in Sherlock had to adjust the how and when that he got off to avoid having the doctor hear.

Sherlock stood up and palmed his erection through his trousers, thoughts of John doing nothing to lessen the erection he’d been sporting since they returned home.

_Really must do something about this Pavlovian response._

The brunette sauntered down the hallway, making quick work of his clothes as he went. He flung them in the general direction of the hamper and flopped on the bed, fingers already dancing over his shaft. He continued his gentle ministrations, letting the pleasure build slowly. His body craved a quick release, but experience had told him this route would lead to a more rewarding finish.

Sherlock reached under his pillow and grabbed his bottle of lube. He was about to flick open the lid when a shift in the shadows on his door alerted him to the presence of someone else.

 _Sneaky little man_.

Sherlock smiled a feral grin. If the doctor was snooping and wanted to have a show, then who was Sherlock to stop it. He opened the lube and poured a liberal amount on his hand. It was more than strictly necessary but the flat was quiet enough that even the faintest sounds would make their way to John’s eager ears. (On a separate note, the rational part of his brain noted that he needed to shift some nails around so the stairs squeaked in different places. He obviously hadn’t heard John come down.)

Sherlock smeared the cool liquid over his cock and relaxed back into the feelings of pleasure that rippled through him. His arousal was heightened by the knowledge that John was listening.

_Listening and likely aroused._

That thought sent another wave of desire through the detective. Sherlock strained to hear if John was making any noises, enjoying, in his own way, the pleasure Sherlock was feeling. However, it was hard to hear over the noises he was making (not to mention the decrease in cognitive abilities). He was able to catch a groan here and there but John was a quiet man by nature and more so when he was trying to purposefully not make noise.

Sherlock picked up the pace, the occasional grasp or moan from John, pushing his arousal closed to the edge. As the detective climbed, he stopped consciously caring about the man outside his door and simply began reacting. His moans got louder; his words degrading into consonants and vowels. He slipped a lube covered hand down between his legs and began teasing the sensitive skin under his bollocks and added another layerof bliss that was coursing in his veins.

A muffled cry from the kitchen briefly drew the detective’s attention. The knowledge that John had just wanked while listening to Sherlock to the same was enough to push Sherlock over the edge. It was a fall he was more than happy to take. A multitude of noises escaped the detective’s mouth as semen painted his bare chest in long slender stripes.

Sherlock’s hand fell limply to his side; he was utterly spent. He briefly thought about getting up to clean himself with a flannel, but the detective was asleep even before he could pull up his comforter. If he’d still been awake he might have noticed the gasp that John let out or the quiet way he scrambled back to his room.

\-------------

The next morning, John was hesitant to go down to the kitchen, but he knew that if he varied his routine too much then Sherlock would suspect something was up. He thought he had been quiet last night, but this was Sherlock Holmes and anything was possible. John padded down the stairs and made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock was camped out on the couch, lost in his mind palace. John made tea and glanced briefly at the hallway door, noting the specks of dried come still lingering there. He smiled but made no effort to acknowledge it or clean it up. When Sherlock magically appeared at the table as John was putting breakfast on and didn’t say anything about it, John hoped that maybe he evaded detection. Even if he hadn’t, it still didn’t settle his mind about the words he had heard Sherlock say when his defenses where down.

\-------------

Sherlock had woken several hours later rested and mildly irritated with himself. He had got carried away and remembered, upon waking, that he had called out John’s name. He was almost certain that John had heard it, but didn’t recall if there had been any reaction in his post-orgasmic haze. Now he waited for John to appear for the day so as to gauge his reaction. He mimicked being in his mind palace, but beyond a smirk at the doctor’s dried semen on the wall, nothing seemed out of place. Either he hadn’t heard or was taking it in stride. When the smell of bacon and eggs drifted into the sitting room, he decided to chance a closer look and grab some breakfast at the same time. Relief flooded him when John quietly laughed and grabbed a second plate for the detective.


	6. When Worlds Collide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting :) Hope you all enjoy the final chapter!

John heard the blast go off and instinctively went to the ground, taking Sally with him. The pair fell off the edge of the loading bay of the abandoned warehouse but landed on a pile of (not-so-soft) cardboard boxes. Bits of building pelted John’s back, but they were mostly protected. Once the sound of echoing explosions and falling rubble died down, John stood up. A cursory glance at Sally as he helped her up told him she was ok (minus a few cuts and scrapes); his own right wrist was a bit sore but with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he couldn’t tell if it was just sprained or worse. he hugged it to his chest, just in case.

John looked over the edge of the bay to do a visual check on Sherlock and the rest of the Yarders, but when he saw where the blast had come from his heart dropped. The door to one of the storerooms was hanging haphazardly by only half a hinge and it was the room John had last seen the detective heading towards.

The doctor scrambled up the loading bay way, pain in his wrist forgotten, and rushed towards the room.

“Sherlock!” John screamed. “Sherlock, where are you?!”

John was frantic by the lack of response as he reached the door. Only his strong sense of self-preservation made him stop at the doorway to inspect the room before rushing in. The air was full of concrete dust, making things a bit hazy, but the sunlight streaming in from the now missing wall made everything easier to see. John scanned the room, looking for anything to show him where the lost detective was or that would make it too unsafe to attempt rescue.

“See anything?” Lestrade asked from where he had stopped behind John.

“No,” John replied, too curt for his liking but he didn’t really care at the moment.

“Bomb Squad and an ambulance are on the way, we shoul—”

John didn’t wait to hear the rest of what Lestrade said. He had spotted the edge of Sherlock’s coat peeking out of a pile of rubble and he dashed towards it.

“John, wait!” Lestrade called but sighed as it was ignored and followed the man into the room.

John reached the pile and started pulling off some of the smaller pieces. Greg and Sally were right behind him and starting uncovering Sherlock with the doctor.

“Sherlock!”

John kept tossing the rubble away, partially happy that most of the pile seemed to be made up of Consulting Detective and not large pieces of concrete and steel.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?!” John pulled the last piece away from Sherlock’s head as the man gave a groan and attempted to roll over on his back.

“Sherlock, no, you must stay still. Ambulance is on its way.” John crouched down and put a hand on the detective to still him. Sherlock let out another groan but relaxed a bit at the doctor’s touch. “Just stay with me,” he whispered.

Once the paramedics arrived, John stepped out of their way but didn’t go far. The rational part of his brain told him that Sherlock was in excellent hands but his heart feared that if the detective left his sight that he would never be seen again. He watched as they strapped him to a board and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. John was pulled towards the detective as the space between them grew only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his chest.

“Only family, mate.”

John’s eyes darted from the paramedic to Sherlock and back again, his mouth moving soundlessly as he processed the words. The paramedic turned, about to step into the ambulance when a voice stopped him.

“John’s his husband,” Sally announced, placing a hand on John's back and urging him forward. “He gets to go. Besides, he’s injured too.” She pointed to John’s wrist, again clutched to his chest.

John saw the paramedic give Sally a calculated stare (as if he knew it was a lie) but eventually nodded. The doctor scrambled up and took his place in the small jump seat near Sherlock’s head. He was too far away to hold the detective’s hand (looks be damned at this point, he didn’t care what people saw or said) so he settled with carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He was so worried about almost having to leave Sherlock that he didn’t even thank Sally.

The ride to A&E was quiet with only the questions of the medics breaking the silence (most Sherlock was able to answer with grunts or monosyllables but John jumped in when an explanation was needed). Once there, John had to relinquish his hold on the detective, but seeing as he needed his own medical attention, he couldn’t really complain.

John had his wrist splinted (he’d managed only a severe sprain) and was guided to a room that would eventually be Sherlock’s. He was told that he was being kept for observation overnight due to a moderate concussion but otherwise he was ok, minus some bumps and bruises. John was too tired to argue or remind them that Sherlock would _not_ make a good patient, so he settled into the small chair and waited.

\-------------

The warm dark that surrounded John begged him not to leave, but the call of the soft beep coming from the monitors was stronger. He woke up (under a blanket, he realized) and saw Sherlock had arrived; the clock on the wall said it was several hours later and into the wee hours of the morning. Quietly, so as not to disturb Sherlock, who had been allowed a bit of sleep, John scooted his chair forward until it was next to the bed. Sherlock had one hand resting over his abdomen and the other by his side. John slipped his hand underneath the one next to Sherlock and gently entwined their fingers before settling down again in the chair. It wasn’t long before the gentle beeping from Sherlock’s heart monitor and the pulse matching it beneath John’s fingertip had the doctor back asleep.

\-------------

John woke to the gentle brush of skin over the top of his hand. He blinked several times to bring the room into focus and used his free fingers to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry,” came a rough baritone, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The doctor replied with a sleepy smile. “I’m just happy to see you awake.” John gave the detective’s hand a small squeeze and felt an almost overwhelming wave of emotion when Sherlock squeezed it back.

Sherlock was doing well and slated to be released sometime that afternoon. The pair stayed together, sitting quietly or chatting about everything and nothing. Greg, Sally, and even Mycroft had stopped by to see how the detective was and share some details about how the case turned out.

“We caught the bloke who did it,” said Lestrade. “He must’ve messed up his fuse because we found him under another rubble pile in the corner. Not quite as lucky as you but he’ll live.”

Sherlock grunted in response, clearly irritated that he hadn’t caught the man _before_ the bomb exploded.

While Lestrade continued on about the other details, John turned to Sally and gave her a shy smile. “Hey, thanks for yesterday, by the way.” He knew he didn’t need to clarify.

She smiled back. “Don’t mention it.” She thought for a minute before adding. “I know Sherlock and I get on about as well as cats and water, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t see how important you are to each other, in whatever way makes you happy. And if that means I have to fib a bit sometimes…” Sally shrugged her shoulders and smiled before turning back to Lestrade.

Everyone left shortly thereafter and, besides Sally’s vague statement, no one commented about the fact that their hands were joined. Even when the nurses came in to do some final checks on Sherlock, John simply moved up or down the detective’s bed, always keeping a hand on the man. Sherlock had been surprisingly content during his stay, but as it was reaching dinnertime he was clearly getting grumpy and sulky to anyone who wasn’t John.

By the time John was able to (grudgingly) roll Sherlock out of hospital in a wheelchair, both men were ready to be back at the flat. Neither complained when they saw the black car waiting for them at the curb; they simply got in it in an effort to get home quickly.

Once they arrived at 221B, Sherlock flopped on the couch, much too tired (and still a bit sore) to make it properly to his bedroom. John smirked and went into the kitchen.

“Going to make tea and order some takeaway,” John announced. “Want something in particular?”

“Anything, as long as it isn’t from a hospital canteen!” Sherlock moaned.

John just laughed and ordered them some Pad Thai from their favorite place. When it arrived, John handed the detective his food before tapping Sherlock’s foot to make room for him on the couch. They ate in a companionable silence, still ignoring this new found… whatever it was. It seemed as if both men decided to let their bodies do all the talking their mouths were incapable of.

John turned on crap telly for a while, not wanting to part from the detective yet for the evening. When it was clear though that even the mighty Sherlock Holmes was falling asleep, John relented and switched it off.

“Come on,” he called, patting the detective’s legs. “Up you get. Time for bed.”

Sherlock sharply inhaled as he was roused. “I’m not sleepy.”

John laughed. “You were just asleep until I woke you. You’re tired.”

John pushed Sherlock’s legs to the ground and manhandled the man into a standing position. Sherlock pouted and did everything but turn into a pile of wet noodles in an effort to hinder the doctor.

“This would be easier if you walked yourself to bed,” John half-heartedly complained.

“But I don’t want to go to bed.” His attempt at petulance was lessened by the laughter that crept into the words.

John just laughed as he continued to guide Sherlock to his room. When they arrived, he unceremoniously turned the detective around and pushed him onto his bed.

“Now try and get some sleep. Your body needs it.” John looked down at the detective but found he couldn’y make himself leave. Finally, he willed his body to move. “Right then, night,” he said and turned to leave.

Sherlock had been staring at his hands; he didn’t want the doctor to leave but didn’t know if he could ask him to stay. This was new territory for them and he wasn’t sure how far into it he could go. When John turned to leave, Sherlock found his hand darting out to grab John’s, fingers landing on the doctor’s wrist instead.

“Stay… please…” Sherlock whispered.

John stopped when he felt the brunette’s fingers brush the skin of his wrist. The words pulled at his heartstrings and he knew that they could no longer ignore what had happened between them, what was happening right now. John took a deep breath before turning back to Sherlock. When he did, one look at the man was all he needed to know what step to take next. John slipped down to his knees between Sherlock’s legs and put his hand to Sherlock’s cheek, gently turning his head until their eyes met. He looked deep, for just a moment, before closing the distance and pressing their lips together.

Sherlock groaned when John's mouth met his. It was blissful and surreal but the heavy weight of the splint on John’s other hand grounded the detective in reality: they could have lost each other today. The only thought that kept running through his head was that John wanted this… needed this… as much as he did. Sherlock’s lips parted and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. He felt John’s tongue snake out and brush against his lower lip. The detective let out another moan. They had kissed on a case, weeks before, but that was nothing compared to this. John had always claimed to be a good kisser but Sherlock hadn’t been that impressed; now, with a John that was an active participant, he could see where the doctor’s claim came from. For now, Sherlock let John lead, only throwing in a bit of his own flair every once in a while.

“Budge up,” John said, when they finally broke for air. “My knees can’t do this much longer.”

Sherlock scooted back onto the bed, leaned against the headboard, and watched as John followed on hands and knees, already eager to resume where they had left off; any sense of weariness had vanished. John crawled until he was straddling Sherlock thighs before leaning down to lay claim to the brunette’s mouth again.

John explored the detective’s mouth while his hands roamed up and down Sherlock’s body. Hesitantly, John rocked his hips forwards and ground his erection into the detective’s.

“Uhhh… John…” Sherlock moaned, rutting back against the doctor. “God, that feels good.”

Emboldened by Sherlock’s words, John continued to rut against the detective. His hands went to the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and began undoing them one by one.

“How far do you want this to go tonight?” John asked, soft lips pressing a kiss to the detective’s sternum as it was revealed.

Sherlock cocked his head at John. “I am not the one who is engaging in decidedly homosexual  acts after having proclaiming to be ‘not gay’ to anyone who would listen.”

John looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “And I’m not the idiot who assumes ‘not gay’ means I don’t like men. I just don’t appreciate incorrect labels.”

It only took Sherlock half a second before a wicked grin spread across his face. “Bisexual.”

John nodded once as his hands slid up Sherlock’s chest and pushed the shirt over his shoulders and behind him. “There just hasn’t been anyone to catch my attention for a while.” The doctor smirked. “At least, no one who can outshine you,” and John bent down to claim Sherlock’s mouth again.

Sherlock skimmed his hands over the doctor’s hips and around over his round arse, gently squeezing before slipping his hand under the shirt and jumper the doctor wore; he tugged at it, slightly angry that it was there. He pulled the offending fabric up and over John’s head in one motion.

John groaned at the loss of contact with the detective but let out a quiet moan as the warm heat of Sherlock’s mouth found his nipple. The doctor’s head fell back as a tongue danced around the edge, drawing small wet circles, before finally flicking the pebbled flesh in the center. John inhaled sharply at the pleasure the swept through him. Sherlock switched his ministrations to the other nipple while rolling the first through his fingers. Soon the detective was peppering all of John's skin with kisses and nibbles. John couldn’t help the breathy moans that fell from his lips.

“God, John,” Sherlock said between kisses to the doctor’s chest, “you’re gorgeous… your body… your mind… the noises you make…” Sherlock gripped John’s torso and flipped them until the doctor was laying flat on the bed.

“Ah! Sherlock!” John screamed in panic as he was flipped, frantically grabbing hold of the detective. He couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled forth at both his surprised yell and the finesse of the movement (he would honestly be impressed later). “Don’t know that I’ve had that done to me so gracefully before.”

Sherlock was laughed back. “Graceful? _You_ were hardly graceful, flailing about like you were.” Sherlock looked down at John, face red with laughter. “Although, I suppose I shouldn’t be too exuberant. My body will not thank me in the morning.”

“No, well, parts of it won’t,” John grinned at Sherlock. “Other parts, however, may be _very_ thankful,” he said while his hand slid down to palm the detective through his trousers.

Sherlock dropped his forehead to the doctor’s chest, “John…” the detective moaned as the blonde gently gripped his length and gave it a squeeze. “I believe… we are overdressed.”

John giggled a little, no one had ever made his name feel and sound so sensuous before. “Yes, yes we are,” and he slid his hand to Sherlock’s belt and flies to undo them. He made quick work of them as Sherlock wiggled his hips and helped push the offending fabric away. John, at one time or another, had seen most of Sherlock in the course of patching him up after cases, so he wasn’t surprised by the lean muscular build. This time, his eyes were drawn down to the flesh between Sherlock’s legs, the detective’s erection jutting proudly from his body. Sherlock’s cock matched his body: long and lean.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked down at John before removing the doctor’s remaining clothing. He could see the flushed head of John’s cock peaking out of his pants, the tip already glistening with leaking fluid. Sherlock thought John’s cock looked thicker than most but was of an average length. Once they were both blissfully naked, Sherlock leaned back down and caged John’s shoulders between his arms. As he bent down to claim the doctor’s mouth again with his own, Sherlock slotted their erections together. The detective could only manage a moan at the feeling of hot, hard flesh pressing together.

“Fuuuuuck,” John breathed. He had forgot how good it felt to have a hard cock slide along his own; the stolen nights in an Afghan desert seemed a lifetime away. The sensations awoke desires in John he had in as many years. “I want to feel you everywhere,” he whispered to Sherlock. “Against my cock, with my tongue… in my arse…” The last came out breathy, almost as if John was shy about the request, but his piercing gaze never left the detective.

Sherlock laughed, “Oh, there are numerous experiments to run.” The brunette slid his hand under his pillow and pulled out his bottle of lube. “For now, though, I can honor your last request.”

John knew he should be angry about Sherlock combining sex and experiments, but he honestly didn’t expect anything less from the detective. In some ways, it excited the doctor to know that it wouldn’t ever be boring between the two.

Sherlock opened the cap and poured some lube over his fingers and spread it around. He nudged John’s knees a little farther apart as he reached down between them. “Will I finally get to hear you, my quiet little man?”

John chuckled. “Little?!” he said in a mock angry tone; it was hard to be angry when someone was brushing feather light touches over your cock, bollocks, and perineum.

“Will you scream for me as I pound into you?” An evil smirk danced across the detective’s face as he slid farther back.

The doctor groaned at the sensation of slick fingers circling his hole before a single digit pressed in up to the first knuckle. “I may be a quiet man, but I can give as good as I can get,” he told Sherlock as he willed his body to relax. It was always an odd sensation at first, but soon, pleasant warmth spread through his body and the little bit of tension there melted away.

Sherlock sensed the change and began to slowly pump is finger in and out. He relished the feeling of John rocking back slightly to push the detective deeper. He leaned down and kissed a trail down John’s neck. When he reached the doctor’s collarbone (remembering how sensitive John was), he bit down slightly, sucking a small mark into the tanned skin, as he slipped in a second finger along the first.

“Uhhh, oh, God… fuck, that’s good…” John murmured, his hips already acquiring a mind of their own. He closed his eyes to let his body simply enjoy the sensations.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and he continued to kiss and lick across John’s chest; he really did enjoy any and all sounds that escaped the doctor’s lips. He pumped his fingers in and out, scissoring them every other stroke to further open the doctor up. When he slipped the third finger in, John let out another breathy moan. He stroked the doctor from the inside a few more times before crooking one of his fingers and letting it rub across John’s prostate.

“Ahhh!” John practically yelled (well for him, anyway; it was still no louder than normal conversation levels), while his eyes snapped open to look at the detective who hadn’t skipped a beat. “Fuck, Sherlock!”

The grin on Sherlock’s face was near maniacal. “I knew you were capable of speech.”

“And if you ever want to hear anything again, you’ll get your cock in my arse and fuck me properly.” John ground down on Sherlock’s fingers particularly hard to punctuate his point.

Sherlock let out the moan this time, his impressive mind already deducing what the ring of muscle would feel like around his cock. He slid his fingers out of John and for a moment they both bemoaned the loss. He leaned over and reached towards the bedside table. A hand on his forearm stopped him.

“I appreciate the caution, but…” John paused for just a second, watching Sherlock’s face to see his reaction. “We can use a condom if you want, but I am clean and I trust you if you say you are, too. Or if you just prefer them anyway, we can use them.”

Sherlock looked quizzically at the doctor.

John was suddenly unsure, perhaps not using a condom was too intimate for the detective. “Really, whatever you want to do is fine, it’s all fine.”

Finally, Sherlock smiled and leaned back so he was over the doctor again. “I am clean, I simply assumed you would want a condom, safety and cleanliness and all.”

John reached up and placed his uninjured hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “There have been plenty barriers between us for long enough. I don’t want to add anymore if we don’t have to.” He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock smiled into the kiss and shifted his weight back onto one arm. John tapped his free hand as the snick of the lube bottle cap met his ears. The doctor poured more lube into his palm and he snaked his hand back down between them, neither one breaking the kiss. He smeared the lube generously across his cock and then the pucker of John’s hole before lining himself up. He rested the head of his cock against the tight flesh for just a moment.

“Please,” John pleaded. When Sherlock slowly pushed the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle, the doctor let out an obscene moan, not stopping until the detective was fully seated.

Sherlock waited, both for John to adjust to the sudden fullness and for himself to calm down enough that he didn’t come on the spot from the sudden flood of sensation to his body.

After several moments, John rocked back on the detective. “If you don’t start moving, I’ll fuck myself on you instead.”

Sherlock let out a moan at the movement but complied and began slowly rocking his hips. He slid is cock halfway out before thrusting back in. It didn’t take long before his thrusts became longer, nearly coming free of John's hole, and faster, no longer a conscious thought but his body following its physical need for pleasure.

John’s head fell back and to the side, a steady stream of gasps and moans falling from his lips regardless of whether they were occupied with Sherlock’s.

“Oh… God… Sherlock…” John was nearly lost, so close to the edge but not near enough to fall over. “Ahhh… fuck… oh, God…” John continued his whispered litany.

Sherlock was no longer capable of coherent speech, instead grunts, groans, and moans escaped his lips with each thrust. He was careful to keep his stomach raised above John, limiting the contact to the doctor’s cock to the rhythmic tapping against the man’s abdomen with each thrust. He glanced down and saw the flesh was flushed deep and leaking profusely. When Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer, he lowered himself so he pressed against the doctor, trapping his cock between them.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck… Sher… lock… oh, God… shit… fuck… FUCK!”

John’s words were hardly more than a murmur, but Sherlock picked up the pace, hips slamming into the doctor while his body provided the friction John needed to his own cock. Sherlock felt the flutter of the muscles deep within John moments before the doctor came between them.

“FUCK! Sherlock! Oh, God! Oh, God! Fuck! Fuck! Don’t stop! Fuck!”

Sherlock continued to thrust through John's orgasm, wringing everything he could from the man. Most of the words leaving John's lips were still hardly louder than a whisper but they brought the detective closer to the edge. Sherlock gave one last thrust of his hips before he stilled, come spilling deep within John. The detective cried out, not at all caring who knew about his pleasure. He hadn’t let himself be this vocal in years and it only added to his pleasure. His hips snapped in a few more times with each twitch of his cock, pumping more semen into John.

Eventually, he collapsed boneless onto the doctor. They both lay there panting for several minutes, too tired to move or care about the mess between them. It was John who recovered first, dead weight of the detective eventually too much for him.

“Oi, I still need oxygen.” John gave Sherlock a nudge and he fell to the side. The both hissed as his cock slid free of John.

To make up for the loss of contact, Sherlock instead turned on his side wrapped himself around John, arms and legs pulling the blonde man close.

John huffed out a laugh. “Never would have thought you a cuddler,” he said. A moment later he added, “Although, it also makes sense that you would be an octopus in bed.” Sherlock grunted in indignation at the accusation and John answered with a kiss to his head.

John debated for several minutes the merits of getting up to shower or just waiting until the morning but the gentle snores that soon issued forth from the detective decided for him. He groped beside him for something (it ended up being his pair of pants) and cleaned up what he could of the come coating their bodies. He would feel utterly disgusting in the morning but the warmth of the body around him and the flood of pleasurable hormones still coursing through his body made it all more than worth the crustiness. With one last kiss to the crown of Sherlock’s head, John slipped into the best sleep he’d had in years.


	7. Awkward Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have finally stopped dancing around each other and acknowledged their mutual feelings for one other. But what about the other people in their lives? How and when should they share the happy news? Sometimes life just decides for you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a fabulous comment by Mori got me thinking about how everyone finds out the boy's new relationship. I couldn't stop thinking it over and then had the need to write it. And of course they can't be so normal as to just tell people. So here is how Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Greg, and Molly find out the change. Hope you all enjoy a little bonus chapter :)

John kicked the door shut with his foot, arms loaded with bags from Tesco. He set the bags down by the stairs and grabbed out the boxes of biscuits before walking over to Mrs. Hudson's door and knocking.

"Oh, hello, dearie," the landlady said as she opened the door.

John smiled, "Sorry to bug, just wanted to replace the biscuits for Himself." He held out the boxes he'd retrieved.

Mrs. Hudson took the offered boxes. "Ta. Anything we can do to get food into that boy," she said, giving John a conspiratory look.

John laughed and nodded his head in agreement.

"And how _are_ things between you two boys?" She asked, grin turning a bit lascivious.

John furrowed his eyebrows, "It's fine." He drew out the last word, confused about her look.

She kept smiling. "Mmm hmm.

Jon stared back; clearly he was missing something. "Right, then. See you around."

"Bye, dearie," Mrs. Hudson replied, grin softened a bit but still present.

John turned and headed back towards the stairs.

"Oh, John?"

John stopped by the edge if the stairs and turned back.

"I'm going to my sisters this weekend, so need for you boys to worry about me."

John was about to reply but the words stuck in his throat. Mrs. Hudson had just _winked_ and _wiggled her eyebrows_ at him. She shut her door (grin back in full force) before he got a word in otherwise.

John shook his head and grabbed the bags he'd left. He was halfway up the stairs when he came to a dead stop. He suddenly realized what she had been hinting at. Mortification flooded him, the heat he felt creeping across his face likely turning it an awful shade of crimson. Sherlock had been far from quiet these last few days since they had finally got together and John hadn't given any thought to the other occupants of the building. He continued up the stairs, unsure how he was going to be able to look her in eye next time he saw her. One thing he did know was that he would have to pick her up a decent pair of earplugs the next he went to Tesco and slip it in with the biscuits as an apology for the noise that wasn't likely to stop anytime soon.

\-------------

John padded softly down the hallway to the kitchen. It was Saturday and they were enjoying a lazy morning after a particularly rambunctious night. John had mentioned his conversation with Mrs. Hudson (who had left early yesterday afternoon to “beat the traffic”) to Sherlock but he didn’t seem to care. He did agree with getting her some earplugs though.

John stepped into the kitchen and clicked on the kettle. He was reaching up to the cabinet when a quiet noise made him freeze. He turned around and took a step towards the sitting room, mug gripped tightly in his hand. As the room came full into view, John came to a stop.

“God damn it, Mycroft!” John slammed the mug down on the table.

Mycroft smirked from where he was seated in Sherlock’s chair. “I need to talk to my brother.” He slid his eyes up and down John. “And it appears congratulations _are_ in order, this time.”

John scowled at Mycroft. “Piss off.” He had the sudden realization that he was standing in front of Mycroft, in nothing but his skin, after having walked from Sherlock’s room. Despite the flush that was creeping across his cheeks and down his chest, he refused to let his embarrassment show.

“I have business of an imperative nature to discuss with Sherlock and he seems keen to ignore my other methods of communication.” Mycroft absently twirled the umbrella in his hands.

John was about to unleash his verbal tirade about not invading their privacy and appropriate ways to announce a visit to the flat, when he felt two hands slide over his hips and wrap around his waist.

“He said, piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock dropped his lips to John’s neck and pressed a chaste kiss to the skin there. His hands slid forward and creatively settled over John, effectively blocking the view of his cock from Mycroft without appearing obscene.

Mycroft released a tense breath. “Sherlock, I don’t have time for your games. This is a sensitive matter that needs to be dealt with swiftly and discretely.”

Sherlock settled his chin on John’s shoulder. “Then say ‘please.’”

John felt the smile dance across the detective’s face at the statement. He saw the flicker of anger the crossed Mycroft’s face before he reined in the emotion. He was clearly at the end of his line but would never admit defeat.

“Please,” Mycroft said after several seconds of staring at Sherlock. “Now if you be so kind as to get properly dressed—”

“Send me relevant documents and I will look at them.”

John’s attention turned briefly to the skin of his arse. He was fairly certain Sherlock was getting aroused.  A moment later, he felt the faint trail of a fingernail slide up and down his cock. He shivered and Sherlock pressed another kiss to his neck.

Mycroft stood up, doing his best to look imposing. “I don’t have time for your frivolous games, brother mine. You will put on some clothes and we can discuss this.”

Sherlock shifted his weight from one to another and pressed his now fully erect cock into the cleft of John’s arse.

“I’m busy at the moment.”

John felt the flush creeping back along his skin. It took all his will power to not respond the more insistent touches to his cock, although his cock had its own ideas and was responding accordingly.

“Send me what you can, I’ll come by later for the rest.” Sherlock pressed a few more wet kisses to John’s neck.

John felt his resolve failing. Much more of this and, Mycroft be damned, he was going to have Sherlock on the table right now.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft was well past done but refused to accept defeat.

John let his head fall back as Sherlock began to nibble on his neck. The rational part of him was mortified; the rest of him didn’t give a rat’s arse. His cock, while still covered with Sherlock’s hands was obviously erect at this point.

“Unless I am mistaken brother,” Sherlock said in between kisses and nibbles, “John is about to have me over the kitchen table.” He licked skin until he was up behind John’s ear and grabbed the soft flesh briefly between his teeth before continuing. “Stay if you must, but I’ll have no interruptions.” Sherlock blatantly gave John’s cock a tug while still shielding it with his other hand.

It was Mycroft’s turn to flush crimson. He opened his mouth several times but no sound came out. He watched as Sherlock continued his ministrations but kept his eyes firmly glued on Mycroft’s. He shifted uncomfortably before finally managing, “Very well. I’ll be in touch.” The words had scarcely left his lips before he was scurrying towards the door.

Sherlock grinned as he heard the door click shut downstairs, already maneuvering John to the table. He knew he was going to get an earful from John later, but in the end they would both be laughing and it was always worth it to make Mycroft squirm.

\-------------

Lestrade let his head fall against the desk. This was the _fifth_ form he had found that Sherlock had filled out incorrectly. He quickly flipped through the rest of the pile removing all of Sherlock’s offending documents. It was for the last case they had solved together but Greg was trying to keep his inbox as empty as possible and Sherlock was making it quite difficult.

Greg has last seen the detective and John in one of the briefing rooms going over some of the evidence for the current case. _No doubt he is going to try pocketing something_. Lestrade spent the time in the lift trying to remember all the items in the room so he could figure out what was missing later.

As he approached the room he saw the door was closed but didn’t think anything of it; Sherlock was easily annoyed by most the Mets personnel, so the less contact the better. He grabbed the handle and pushed open the door.

Greg paused, halfway into the room. The sight that greeted him was definitely not what he was expecting. Sherlock was sitting in a chair, rocked back against a table, and balancing on two of the legs. John was in his lap and obviously grinding against the detective. The pair was engaged in quite a serious lip lock war, each taking turns devouring the other. Greg stood there for what seemed like several minutes unsure what to do. It wasn’t until they looked up at him, completely unaware that he had be there (John was obviously embarrassed by being caught in that position) that he realized they were taking the piss out of him and he did a quick about face, pulling the door closed behind him.

The DI took a step forward before stopping to lean against the wall, finally thinking about what he had just seen. He was pretty sure he could hear John and Sherlock’s signature giggling (it had been real, then) from within the room. He shook his head and headed back to his office, deciding the paperwork could wait a bit. As he hit the button for his floor, a grin spread across his face. He realized that while he hadn’t won the pot about _when_ Sherlock and John would finally get together he had definitely won the _where_ they would be found out.

\-------------

Molly was standing in the far corner of the lab organizing one of her instrument trays. She could hear Sherlock and John bickering about something but their whispered tones kept the words from drifting to her. She suspected it had something to do with whatever new changes had or were happening in their relationship. Neither one had said or done anything overt in front of her but it was obvious as day that the pair had moved beyond just friends.

She picked up her tray and walked over towards the storage cabinet. She could see that Sherlock was much closer to John that normal (not that Sherlock had _any_ sense of personal boundaries).

“I said no, Sherlock!” John whispered. “After what happened with Lestrade…”

Molly continued to put her supplies away, acting as if she wasn’t hearing any of it.

“But Jaaawwwwn…”

Molly couldn’t see Sherlock’s face but she could hear the pout in the man’s voice.

“No, Sherlock.”

Molly turned back towards her corner but snuck a quick look at Sherlock. She smiled to herself as she took in all the little clues the detective was putting out without realizing. She didn’t say anything; it was up to them when they wanted to say something about it.

She continued puttering around the lab, cleaning and stocking, while the detective alternated his experiments with arguing with John. On one hand it was cute but on the other she was getting a bit peeved at the circling they were doing. Eventually, she had heard enough.

Molly stalked over and came to a stop in front of their table. “Will you to just have at in one of the exam rooms already?” She put her hands on her hips to emphasize her annoyance.

Both men simply looked up at her in shock.

“I’m serious. This bickering is starting to get on my nerves.” She looked at them, her mind inserting the sound of crickets at their silence. Obviously they needed some encouragement. “Listen, I’m going to go to my office for the next twenty or thirty minutes. If you should need to go looking for some missing reagent in another room somewhere, well then you should do that. Just don’t leave any _mess_ for me to clean up later.”

John and Sherlock still stared like she was speaking a foreign language.

Molly dropped her face to her palm. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Sherlock, you have an erection and have had it, in some manner, for most of the two hours you have been here. You’re a bit not good about the exhibitionism, but John, despite the fact that he has also been sporting an erection most of the time you’ve been here, refuses to anything in public, I suspect after getting caught by Lestrade.” She held out her hand towards the men. “And before you say anything, no he didn’t tell me anything. I am a woman, a doctor, and your friend; I notice these things. Now will you go to exam room one and shag each other already?”

It was John who broke into giggles first, falling sideways into Sherlock.

Sherlock looked over at John, mouth hanging open slightly aghast.

John stood up and held his hand out to Sherlock, who merely cocked his head the doctor. He placed both hands on the detective’s thighs and leaned in to whisper (none to softly) in his ear. “You heard the lady.” John trapped the flesh of Sherlock’s ear between his teeth.

Sherlock sucked in a breath before scrambling to his feet. They were halfway out of the lab before they heard Molly call out to them.

“And I was serious about not leaving any messes for me to clean up!”

John gave her a quick smile before they ducked behind the door.

Molly headed back to her office to give the two a little bit of privacy and from the sounds she still managed to hear several minutes later, it seemed that the two were managing to have quite a good time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think with kudos, comments, or constructive criticism.
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).


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